


Kiss The Boy

by notsugarandspice



Series: Prompts [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Nervous Pining, Reddie, Richie is whipped af, Teenagers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, just mega cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 07:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14444382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsugarandspice/pseuds/notsugarandspice
Summary: From richietoaster's prompt: OKAY PROMPT: CUTE FLUFFY THING OF REDDIE BASED OFF OF “kiss the boy” by keiynan lonsdale PLEAASEwarning: some mild language, but mainly stupid boys and fluff





	Kiss The Boy

“I can do it myself, I’m not an idiot.”

“Never said you were, Richard. But you know absolutely nothing about it.”

“Mom, I can go to the shop a town over. But come on! You’re going to call a guy my age to paint me a car? What if he goes to my school. I won’t live through that humiliation!”

Richie shoves a ham and cheese sandwich Maggie made him with aggression that leaves some mayo on the lens of his glasses.

“I’m sure you’ll be just fine. Might help relieve you from the burden of that ego a little bit.”

Maggie lifts her eyes from a cutting board, eyeing her son with amusement. Richie just rolls his eyes and tries to stick some  _Pringles_ in the crevices of the mouth that aren’t occupied by the sandwich.

“Alright, I think I’m done here. Why don’t you bring this down to him? He should be here any minute.”

Maggie puts a plate with a large club sandwich and strawberry lemonade in front of Richie and has to slap her son’s hand away when he reaches for a layered triangle.

“Be  _nice,_ Richie. Don’t make me regret my decision.” She points the finger at him and lets it linger in the air as an eerie warning.

Richie eventually grunts and grabs the plate and the cup, and walks to the garage to greet the guy who’s going to do his job for him. As if painting a car is that fucking difficult.  _Yeah, right._

The door leading to the garage slams behind him as he enters the room, feeling the stifling heat from the opening. His mother’s old, beat-up circa 1970 Volkswagen Beetle is still in the middle, the silver paint worn and peeled in random places. Richie can see a red-cap covered head of someone bending towards the car on the other side, probably wondering whether he can salvage  _some_ paint.  _He can’t._

Richie is very grateful that Maggie decided to gift him one of the very first cars she owned, but he had a growth spurt Sophomore year of high school, and it didn’t help him fit into the tiny vehicle one bit. He doesn’t even care that the car is feminine; he simply can’t even sit down without bending his neck. Maybe he can ask the guy to do something about the seat.

Richie rounds the vehicle and steps in front of the boy who’s allegedly a car master of some sort. Maggie said his stepdad owns a shop on the edge of Derry, and apparently, the guy works there a lot.  _More like works out._ The boy is bouncing on the tiptoes of white sneakers, peeling off some silver paint on the door of the car, the left tricep prominent and shifting as he moves the arm around. Richie can see that the shoulders are fit too because the guy is wearing a red tank top, and even the thigh muscles are bulging, revealed by the relatively short jean shorts. And Richie would say that they’re too short for a guy, but he likes the view a bit more than he’s willing to admit.

Richie clears his throat, and the boy looks up, but half of the face is still shielded by the cap. He leans on the knees to stand up, and Richie’s eyes get stuck on the movement of the bicep muscles as the boy turns the hat around, so the cap isn’t covering his face anymore. Richie lifts his eyes to meet the other’s, and his heart jumps somewhere behind his tongue. He’s met with a slightly tan, flushed face, covered in tiny dots of freckles stretching from one cheek to the other, several bigger ones perched on the small nose.    

“Is that for me?”

“W-what?”

The boy releases a soft chuckle and points the finger at the strawberry lemonade in Richie’s hand, and he is suddenly aware of the burning coldness in his skin, sweating droplets of the glass sliding down bony knuckles.

“Oh. Y-yeah.”  _Jesus Christ, did you switch bodies with Stuttering Buh-buh-buh-bill?_

Richie reaches out the cup and blinks rapidly, an uninvited nervousness washing through him. The boy takes it, inadvertently scratching one of Richie’s knuckles, and he feels a shiver reach the bottom of his spine. They guy sips on the drink, the condensation running down his hand to the elbow, droplets falling on the uneven garage floor.

“You have something on your glasses.”

“What?”

“Is that your favorite word?”

Richie blinks and places the plate on the table next to the wall, taking the glasses off to see what the guy is talking about. And since he can’t actually put the frames into focus even if they’re straight in front of the eyes, he simply wipes them on the shirt. Which, apparently, only smudges the residue.

“Please tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

Richie is confused for several seconds, but then he laughs and points a finger gun at the guy. “It’s jizz, my darling.”

“Wow. Creative. You’re a real show stealer.”

“You bet.”

“Do you know what sarcasm is?” Richie wants to reply something witty, but he gets too mesmerized by the movement of dark curly eyelashes, only visible through the left lens.

It’s not until the guy grabs the glasses straight from his face, brushing a finger on each temple, that he recovers a bit. He watches the blob of red wipe at his frames furiously and hears the forced breathing, probably intended to help with the cleaning. Richie finally feels the glasses touch the tops of his ears, and he watches the concentrated expression on the guy’s face, brows furrowed and bottom lip trapped behind small teeth.  _He’s fucking adorable._

“Is it better?” asks the boy, still standing dangerously close to Richie.  _He smells like fresh baked cookies._

“Think so.”

They stand in the present position for several seconds, blissfully unaware of the passing time. Richie is looking all over the guy’s face, his eyes finally landing on puckered rosy lips, and he feels his neck tug down towards the boy involuntarily. But before he gets to even realize the implications of  _that,_ the boy coughs and steps back a bit, and the sweet scent of vanilla extract is gone.

“I’m Eddie,” says the guy, extending his hand for Richie to shake. The protruding vein on Eddie’s wrist distracts the tall boy for several seconds.

“Dick,” says Richie, grabbing the boy’s hand and shaking it with more enthusiasm than is probably socially acceptable. But Richie doesn’t give a damn about societal expectations anyway.

“Your name is Dick?” Eddie doesn’t seem to mind that his hand is still trapped between Richie’s pale fingers.

“Richard is my name, nicknames are my game.” Richie winks, and it inevitably leads to a quiet giggle and a barely-there blush.  _Jesus._

“You got one for me?”

Richie loosens the grip on Eddie’s hand a bit, making it go slack but still holding onto it, maybe a bit more gentle than he intended. He steps closer, leaning down to whisper. “Sure thing, Eds.”

Eddie squeals and pushes at the flat bony chest, effectively sending Richie tumbling into the table, the plate shattering on the dirty floor. Both boys bring hands to their mouth in anticipation of parental rage, but nothing comes, and terrified expressions are soon replaced with soft laughter. Richie leans down to pick up the small pieces of the sandwich that are scattered along with large ceramic pieces, placing it all in a small tower that he figures he’ll throw out by the pharmacy, so Maggie doesn’t know what he did. He shivers noticeably when Eddie’s arm brushes his own, adding the pieces that fell under the car. And when their eyes connect, Richie can feel his own face color resemble that of the boy’s, and he hasn’t felt  _that_ since… well, ever.

“You have a bag we can put all this in?” asks Eddie, standing up and walking around the garage to locate the needed item.

“No, but I have newspapers.”

“That’ll do.”

They wrap it in a large ball of Wentworth’s  _Washington Post_ , dated several months ago. Richie discards it into the trash bin standing next to the garage door, thinking that he’d remove it later to make sure Maggie doesn’t notice it. Not that his mother walks around peering into trash bins, but he really doesn’t want to disappoint.

“Sorry about your sandwich, Eds.”

Eddie smiles earnestly, and the warm feeling in the middle of Richie’s abdomen is almost overwhelming in the summer heat of Maine.

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t come here for food.”

“Right, you’re here for the cold hard cash. I can’t believe you’d do this to me! I thought this was something special!” Richie drops down to his knees in front of the boy, animatedly sobbing, somehow pulling actual tears, and the guy laughs so hard that he doubles over.

“You’re terrible,” says Eddie, grinning wide and honest, and Richie is irritated that he’s too busy pushing his glasses to observe every movement of muscle on the boy’s face.

“You laughed though, Eds.”

Eddie suddenly rolls his eyes and throws his arms up in annoyance. “Don’t fucking call me that, dumbass.”

Richie stands up and moves to stand unnecessarily close to the boy, making the other crane his neck to blink up at him with twinkly brown eyes that make the corners of Richie’s mouth jump. But instead of sporting an irritated expression, Eddie simply smirks, lifting one of his eyebrows and crossing the arms, inadvertently touching Richie’s stomach, making him jump back with a whine he never even heard from a girl.  _Nice job, Tozier._

Of course, the boy just laughs at him and moves closer to the car. And Richie’s head is a jumbled mess of things he doesn’t yet understand. So instead of confronting the buzzing feeling in abdomen, he moves back towards the street and plops onto the bike.

“Where are you going?” asks Eddie, a note of disappointment laced through curiosity.

“I owe you some food, Eds!” screams Richie in response, pedaling away quickly towards the center of the town, his head a little light from the sudden rush of air he didn’t have in the small space.

He comes back forty minutes later, barely maneuvering the bike with one hand, holding a large vanilla cone in the other. The stifling heat makes the ice cream run down his hand, onto the handles, leaving a white trail from  _Smith’s_ to Tozier residence. He throws the bike onto the front lawn, unable to position it by the house. By the time he walks up to the garage, there are newspapers under and around the car, and Eddie is holding an electric sander, a mask hanging around his neck. Richie comes closer, the ice cream still dripping, and reaches it out for the boy to take. Eddie jumps when he turns around, his eyes going wide and breathtakingly pretty. Richie can’t get enough air again.

“What’s this? Oh my God, it’s dripping everywhere!”

Eddie grabs Richie’s wrist with the vanilla cone after he puts the sander down, and leads him out into the sun. Richie notices that the boy is no longer wearing the baseball hat, and the brown hair glistens with stripes of maroon and gold, smooth and wavy. Richie’s hand is shaking from nervousness, and he’s not even sure he can hold the ice cream much longer.

“It’s for you.” He reaches out again, a couple of vanilla drops falling on his toes, sliding down on the flip-flops.

“You brought me ice cream all the way from  _Smith’s?_ ”

Richie realizes that he might’ve gone overboard, but when does he not? He can’t make a sandwich to save a life.

“Um. Yeah?” He smiles nervously, and he can feel his entire body flush with an intensity that reminds him of the time he saw Cillian Murphy on TV.

Eddie searches his face for several seconds, and Richie can see a cherry blush spread behind the tiny freckles. The boy fights a smile but eventually wraps his hand around Richie’s, gently taking the cone from his hand. He licks around the rim, taking care of the melted part of the small vanilla mound. He looks up at Richie who realizes that he’s staring at the boy with a mouth half-open, his whole body on fire. Eddie extends the arm, putting the ice cream right in front of Richie’s face.

“Want some?”

There is a silver glint in large browns again, and a shy smile that makes Richie’s legs shake a little. He wraps his hand around Eddie’s small one, covering it completely and for whatever reason leans down quickly, pecking the boy’s smooth cold lips. Horrified at what he’s done, he tries to retreat back, blood pumping in his ears but Eddie doesn’t let him, putting a small hand behind his neck. Richie has to breathe in harshly from his nose because he feels like passing out from the hot breath that escapes the boy’s mouth when their lips part to meet again. Richie can feel Eddie smile into the kiss, all warm cookies, and cold vanilla, and Richie thinks he understands what the fuss with kissing boys is all about.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: creamy-brown-eyes


End file.
